


In for a penny

by onechairleft



Series: In or Out [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-25
Updated: 2014-10-25
Packaged: 2018-02-22 14:14:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2510639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onechairleft/pseuds/onechairleft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a Direwolf on the Isle of Skagos and Arya Stark is going to find it. She has to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In for a penny

Skagos wasn't what she thought it would be. It was bitterly cold, yes, and the Northern wind could tear flesh from bone. The Skagosi, though... she'd been expecting Northerners- like the Mountain Clans, maybe. But the Skagosi were more like the men and women of the Free Cities than of the North. Northerners were serious and steady, or at least, that was her memory of it. The Skagosi drank and danced and laughed as if Winter would never come. As if Winter was not already here. 

The buildings were low-roofed and made with stone, built close to the ground to withstand the wind and any windows were always on the Southern side. At night, the Skagosi gathered in groups, telling stories and singing by their fires. They mended nets and clothes with the same hands.

She could slip in amongst them easily enough- she could speak their butchered tongue as easily as a native and her dark hair helped her blend in. She found work with one of the fishing boats, gutting and salting their catch. It was stinking, disgusting work, but she was good with a blade and fish guts were far from the worst thing she'd had on her hands.

It took her weeks, much longer than she'd hoped, to root out the stories. The Dread Direwolf, as they called it, had killed two men and wounded another on it's last encounter and people were wary of calling it upon them. There was always someone, though, willing to tell tales and Arya was willing to listen. 

It was big as a horse, they said, and dark as night- all the better for creeping out of the shadows and eating you. They said. 

Grutte, her captain, clasped her on the shoulder and announced that they'd best be careful- they wouldn't want to go scaring the girl. She imagined breaking his fingers and how he would howl in pain, but she shivered instead and wore a face of wide-eyed fear. 

The building (it couldn't be called a tavern, though there was certainly drinking) was packed and warmed with body heat but even through the crowd, she could feel someone watching. Not her, no, but someone was watching and listening all the same. 

Arya excused herself, pleading a need for something to fortify herself against their tales- much to her Captain's amusement. He'd seen her elbow-deep in blood and guts, her blade singing merrily. He would use her fear against her, if he could. 

They kept talking, exchanging stories of the beasts they'd slain and the horrors they had seen. Arya dismissed much of it as bravado- the Direwolf stories were the only ones she cared for and they were the only real ones, besides. 

It didn't take her long to find the watcher. He was older, greying, and was missing some fingers. The boy sitting with him has dark curls and a wide mouth. Neither look familiar, but both are Westerosi. They do not blend in with the Skogosi crowd as neatly as she does, though the boy does a fair job. She watches them carefully. The older man speaks but the boy never replies- he's a mute, she guesses, because he nods and gestures, but never opens his mouth. She wonders if he was born that way or made that way. Ilyn Payne had been made, she remembered. 

They were listening the same as she was, she was sure. And for the same thing- stories of the Direwolf. She wasn't sure why she was so certain but there was a light in the man's eyes, a curiosity. She followed, at a distance, when they retired up the stairs to their room.

When she was certain they were sleeping, she opened their door and moved in. The room was musty and dank- the bed was a straw mattress and a bucket in the corner was being used as a privy. They were sleeping soundly, though, and Arya could paw through their things without interruption. There wasn't much- some coin, a map. Nothing to tell her who they were or what they were after. 

She left the way she'd come and returned to her Captain- he'd hardly noticed her absence. They were speaking of krakens, now, as fishermen do. The mere mention of the word and her jaw clenched. She'd known a kraken, once, and he'd proven himself as horrible a monster as any. 

She left when dawn broke. There was nobody to miss her- the sea was too rough for fishing and Grutte told her to make herself scarce until he needed her again. She'd only nodded, accepted her coin and took her filetting knife as she left. It was a long, thin, sharp blade and she liked it very much. She'd taken some salted and dried fish, too, but he'd mourn the blade more. 

The storytellers had said the Direwolf was in the forests, as far North on the island as anyone could go. The wildest, coldest and darkest part of Skagos.

The further she went, the more Northern it felt- the Southern shore, she concluded, had been civilised by the Free Cities. The rest of the island... she stayed away from the people when she could help it. They were not welcoming to strangers. She could understand that. 

The island was not large- she covered the distance in a sennight. She could have pushed faster, but Winter nights are not made for travelling. 

Her dreams changed. Used to be, she'd dream of wolves and running. Now, she dreamed of the Heart Trees. The Skagosi prayed to the Old Gods, too, and she stopped at every Godswood she came to. They whispered to her, day and night, sounding just like her father and her brothers. Other voices, too, that she knew without asking were her aunt, her grandmother and grandfather. Her great-grandparents. Countless voices, all with the same message.

_Keep going. Winter has come._ They said. _The lone wolf dies, but the Pack survives._ They told her. _There must always be a Stark at Winterfell._ She always shivered and promised. Sometimes, she dipped her fingers in the weeping sap of the Heart trees and used it to coat her face- protection against the cold, she knew, though it stained her hands and face red. The trees didn't mind. They didn't care that she had served Death, called it her god. They were Gods of stone and earth and trees- Gods of mountains and forests and the ground itself. She painted herself in their colours and knew the truth of it: the Old Gods were eternal, too, just like death. Even a dragon cannot slay a mountain. 

The crows were circling above and she knew she was close. She emptied her stomach, just once, before taking her last steps. The birds cawed and called and she could feel her heart pounding in her throat. In the shadows of the forest, the wolf emerged- every bit as big as the men had said, shoulder to shoulder with her. She wondered if she should be afraid of this massive creature- his yellow eyes should have been menacing and his teeth were bared in a snarl. His tangled black fur confirmed what she'd thought. 

He stood his ground, head lowered, even as she stepped toward him. She bared her own teeth- it could have been a snarl, but she thought she was smiling- and raised her hand to scratch behind his ears.

“Hello, Shaggydog.”

She'd found him- the Dread Direwolf of Skagos. _The lone wolf dies, but the Pack will survive._


End file.
